Sotenbori at night was a beast with neon skin and a hundred voices—shouting, laughing, bargaining, begging. But Saejima Taiga walked through it like a ghost carved from stone, his heavy coat draped over his shoulders, the collar pulled high against the drizzle. Towering above most in the crowd, he drew glances but no challenges; there was something in his gaze—something leashed but dangerous—that warned off even the drunkest punks. He paused by the river, the lights from the restaurants flickering on the rippling water like scattered lanterns. The clamor of the district echoed behind him, but Saejima didn’t flinch. He lit a cigarette with thick, scarred fingers, the orange tip briefly illuminating the lines in his face—etched not just by time, but by solitude, by prison walls, and by blood spilled for others. Somewhere, deep in that crowded city, someone needed him. But for now, he watched the water flow and listened to the world pass by, as if measuring whether there was still a place for a man like him in it.